This evening, my friend Joe randomly reached into his jacket and pulled out a book and handed it to me. This is my favorite thing in the world. Friends of mine, I don’t need Easter candy. Just surprise books. Please and thank you. Love, Hubley.

I woke up at 6:30 this morning for no apparent reason. Well, actually, that’s not entirely true: I woke up at 6:30 this morning because I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure that’s enough sleep for anyone.

It’s pretty amazing that I managed this, though, because my neighborhood has gone insane. Some neighbor of mine was playing really weird European techno most of the evening, like loud – that volume that says, “You don’t know it yet, but you really NEED this music.” Well. I didn’t.

Opera Guy is also back. This is some random dude who roams my hood singing arias to himself. I’m not sure which mental illness would make a person do this. Maybe too much art school?

Anyway, in general lately, everyone has been very strange. I’ve taken a poll, and 9 out of 10 people who allow me to IM them agree that people are quite stare-y on the subway, unusually persistent in their pursuit of spare change, prone to fits of giggling in otherwise staid and serious meetings, unwilling to tell their partners what’s wrong, and so on.

I myself have been quite strange. For example, the other day I thought to myself, “I’m just so mad. I don’t even know why. I just hate everyone! And my boobs really hurt.” It took me a full day to realize that this condition is called PMS, and that I have had it for TWENTY YEARS.

So, Spitzer, yeah? I’ve got stuff to say about that, but it’s kinda whiny, so let’s put that aside for now and talk about how geedee crazy each and every member of my family is. In the most lovable way possible, of course.

This Saturday, I was out on a pub crawl when I got a text from my sister:

“ARE YOU OK?” It said.

I scratched my head for a minute. It’s a pretty big philosophical question, if you think about it. I mean, I think I might have allergies or something, and I’d really like to lose about ten pounds. But I believe I’m a good person and people keep asking me to hang out, so I must enjoy some kind of esteem from my peers.

I was just about to text back, “I think so?” when I noticed that my little envelope thingie was lit up. This means that I had a message. (I am a technical wizard.)

I had two messages. One was confirming a hair appointment, and thank God, as I look like one of those potted plants you can’t kill. The other was from Meg.

“Pooper?” (That’s what she calls me. It’s also what I call her. We’re all about keeping it simple.) “I was watching the news and I saw that there was a crane collapse on the east side and I know you never go there and you’re probably OK but can you call me as soon as you can because I’m so, so worried, and I love you.”

By this time, she was crying. Still, it was a very level-headed message from a five-months-pregnant woman who lives 3000 miles away from the family of her childhood, so I thought she was doing well. I called her back and told her I was alive and well on my way to being drunk, and she was quite relieved that things were back to normal.

Later, I learned that, during the half hour or so between her phone call and my return call, she’d decided the following:

1) That I was dead, and no one knew it yet.2) That her son, who is still in the process of growing lanugo, would never get to meet me and that she would spend the rest of her life telling him all about how much his Auntie Jennie loved him, even before he was born. 3) That I was dead. For real. As in, not alive. (It’s really important to remember that I’ve never once, in three years of living in New York, been within ten blocks of the place where the crane collapsed.)

Apparently, she called my folks, got my Dad on the phone and scared the shit out of him. He wasn’t afraid that I was dead. He was afraid that she was broken.

She claims he literally said: “Ah! Ah! Crying! Wait! Your mother!” And then woke my Mom up from a sound nap by shoving the phone in her face and saying, “Crying! It’s crying! Fix it!”

This probably isn’t an exaggeration.

Then she informed Mom that I was probably dead and started crying harder, while saying, “But she’s dead and I don’t love ANYONE LIKE I LOVE MY POOPER.”

I’m certain that her husband was thrilled about this statement, but I have to say that it warmed my heart later when I heard it.

Hormones are a helluva drug, people.

Long story short, I’m fine, Meg’s fine, the bebe is fine, John is fine, and even my Dad has recovered nicely. We are high-strung people, but affectionate. You can’t have everything.

I did my taxes. I’m actually getting money back, which never happens. I’m not sure why. Everyone else I know takes their refunds and buys a small Caribbean island with them.

I went to three birthday parties. I will definitely need that tax refund now. There were a lot of cabs. Also, last night I wound up in a gay go-go bar at four in the morning. You know it’s time to go home when it doesn’t even seem odd that the waiter is not wearing pants.

I am exhausted today, predictably.

Back to the cabs. Cab drivers love me. They want to marry and impregnate me. They want to move to Brooklyn with me and start a car service. Of the four cab rides I took this weekend, two drivers chatted me up in some fashion. This is a pretty consistent percentage.

If you combine my magical cab driver seducing powers with my tendency to attract younger men, it becomes obvious that I will eventually marry a 23-year-old cabbie.

I will make him give you free rides places, but only if you’re very drunk.